


How Beautiful the Dark

by alchemicals



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, But they're kinda cute, Dark Arts, Dark Tom Riddle, Dark!Harry, If you ignore the whole kidnapping bit, Kidnapping, M/M, Manipulation, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Nothing to worry about aha :D, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Relationships, Well tom trying to turn harry dark, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28699095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchemicals/pseuds/alchemicals
Summary: When Harry starts receiving books on the Dark Arts, he thinks nothing of it. Voldemort has vanished seemingly into thin air, taking the Horcruxes with him, and Harry finds solace in devouring Counter-Curses to the Darkest of spells. But when his mind starts slowly opening, providing a pathway for the Dark, Harry soon finds himself kidnapped by the one man he sought to destroy.Harry has a lot to learn, and many lessons come in the most unsavoury of forms.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 8
Kudos: 87





	1. Of Books and Black Magic

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while, hasn't it? With everything going on, it's been a nightmare trying to keep up with my hobbies, as well. But I've recently gotten back into writing, and I've been working on this fic for a few weeks now!
> 
> I do hope you enjoy How Beautiful the Dark, and thank you for deciding to give it a go.
> 
> Note!  
> Harry is 16 and Tom looks around 25-ish. Now, I'm not much of a smut writer but there will be some sensual undertones I guess? But if there were to be smut, Harry would be 17 before that :3

**December - Now**

Voldemort did not like to pretend he was an agreeable man. His hands itched with magic, volatile and quick to melt the flesh of those that did not know their place. He liked the fear that would descend upon a room when he entered it, liked the blood lust that coursed through his veins. 

Tampering down his nature when he’d kidnapped Potter - _so easily, so swiftly under that old man’s nose that it was almost laughable_ \- had not been easy. The boy was insolent. He stiffened whenever Voldemort came close to him, something akin to betrayal swirling in those green eyes. Voldemort sneered at the thought. It was hardly his fault that Potter had found solace in him when he’d visited the boy’s mind.

It only served to show how weak he was, yearning for companionship from a stranger that could have well killed him.

The Manor accustomed to Potter quickly enough. So attuned was it to him and Nagini, it often did not allow strangers to enter it’s doors. It had only settled down after Voldemort had grabbed the boy’s finger the moment they Apparated from the Forbidden Forest, piercing the skin with the ritual dagger he kept at his side. Ignoring the boy’s protests, he’d dropped almost a cup full of blood, watching steadily as the rivulets pooled on the marble floor of the foyer, before it was sucked away.

Potter’s struggles were weaker after that, and Voldemort had chuckled as he hoisted the boy into his arms and took him upstairs.

Dinner that night had been a painful affair. For Potter, that was.

Chained to the chair on his right hand side, Potter did not look like the boy who had been fated to defeat him. He’d been like a rabid animal, stinking of sweat and a righteous anger of some sort. Fury twisted his features, turned him into something ugly and full of hatred. Voldemort was almost flattered - all this emotion, and all for him.

Oh yes, shaping Potter would be both a joy and his greatest conquest. Voldemort looked forward to changing the boy’s views so thoroughly he would be unrecognisable on his return to Hogwarts. 

Now, several days later, Voldemort had finished his preparations for their lessons. He pressed his chin to his open palm, gazing at the half-written letter on his desk, deep in thought. He would be Potter’s sole tutor, as he highly doubted there was anyone more qualified than he. But supplies were in order. Humming to himself, he checked over the letter and signed it as Thomas Gaunt. Satisfied, he sent it off with one of the Manor’s house elves. 

“And bring Harry Potter to me on your way back,” he added.

The creature bowed, and disappeared with a soft pop. 

Hopefully, Potter’s stay in the Dark Room had softened him up; rounded all those jagged edges. If not, Voldemort knew their first lesson today would. It awaited them in the dungeons deep below the Manor.

He brushed down his pale green silk shirt, and stood up when the elf appeared again, this time with Potter in tow. 

The boy had seen better days. His hair was a tangled rat’s nest on top of his head, curls of ink escaping to shield his eyes. His skin lacked life and pallor, an ashy grey that only made the dulled green of his irises shine. Voldemort stepped out from behind his desk, smiling at the way the boy seemed to shrink back. It was not a friendly smile. 

“Come now, Potter,” he tutted, shaking his head. “You’re a mess. What kind of tutor would I be to let you live in squalor? You must take a bath.”

He walked closer, easy measured steps until he was close enough to peer down at the boy. Merlin, how short was he? Voldemort reached out and brushed the messy fringe away.

Where there had been a sick, boiling rage in those eyes before, now there was only a dull anger. No doubt some twisted sense of moral conscience at the injustice he had suffered. Well, good. Voldemort had never been one to shy away from a challenge. 

“The bath is drawn for you already,” he said, turning away. He gestured for the boy to follow him. Slow, thumping steps told him that Potter had obeyed. One defiant step at a time. Snorting, Voldemort led Potter to the pearlescent bathroom on the third floor.

This would be a greater challenge than all those he had faced thus far. Perhaps even greater than the agony of reabsorbing his Horcruxes.

All but one. Glancing at Potter’s forehead, he stepped back to let the boy into the room and strode in after him, shutting the door. 

\--[]--

**November - Then**

Harry frowned at Malfoy over the top of his mug of English Breakfast tea, eyes cataloguing the boy’s every move. Occasionally the steam would fog over his glasses, and Harry would take them off quickly to wipe them down before he returned to what was slowly becoming his only pastime. Because Draco Malfoy was up to something, and Harry was the only one that could see it.

He was interrupted by the familiar hoot of owls and the sound of dozens of flapping wings as the morning mail arrived. Not expecting anything, Harry turned his attention to Malfoy, who was untying a rather large white box from the legs of several owls. He snorted to himself. Of course the Malfoy would have more than one messenger bird, because when did they do anything by half?

Hedwig’s click of annoyance drew his gaze from Malfoy, and he glanced down at the small package tied to the end of the owl’s talon. Hedwig ruffled her feathers, impatience written in her golden eyes. Quickly, Harry untied the delivery from her and sent her away to the Owlery with a few sausage pieces that saved him from a few nasty pecks on the fingers. 

He looked down at the package, frowning. It was the size of a book and wrapped in a soft brown leather that looked expensive, even to Harry’s eyes. The chord that tied across it was made of stripped leather as well, twined with string and trapped some sort of leaf beneath it. Harry reached down to touch it when a hand clasped around his wrist. The Great Hall seemed to fade back into existence, the near-silence at each of the tables. Harry didn’t want to think about the quiet, about the shadows that stretched taller just at the brink of nighttime, tall enough to infect his dreams

“Don’t tell me you’re going to touch that thing,” Hermione deadpanned.

“Er- that’s kind of what people do when they have packages, yeah.”

She rolled her eyes. “Aren’t you going to check it for curses, first?”

Harry sucked in a breath. Merlin, she was right. He wanted to slap himself; why hadn’t he thought of that? Still, he was glad to have a friend like Hermione. She thought of everything. It was nice not to have to worry if he was going to perish because of his own sheer lack of insight. Whipping out his wand, Harry murmured “ _Revelio_ ,” and watched as the spell settled over the package before dissipating.

He glanced up at Hermione. Her eyes were wide, her lips pursed as her fingers twitched, as though she wanted to know what was inside more than Harry. Smiling to himself, Harry quickly untied the leather string and took out the leaf. It was a sickly shade of green, like it had been painted in frost. The veins were blood red, stretching to every side of the leaf like spindly fingers before they pooled at the base. Harry dropped the leaf quickly, unsettled.

“That’s a begonia leaf,” Neville said, leaning around Hermione. “They represent knowledge and deep thought. Professor Sprout said so.”

Harry hummed. He unwrapped the leather cloth and peered inside. It was a book after all. A thick tome, bound in faded black leather. Harry picked it up and brushed his fingers over the worn golden letters inscribed on the front. 

_Secrets of the Darkest Art,_ it read, _by Owle Bullock._

Harry’s chest tightened at the words. There was something wrong with this book. It radiated darkness, a magic so thick it seemed to suffocate him. Harry realised he was still holding it, and quickly dropped it, disgust heavy in the pit of his stomach.

“What is it?” Ron asked, mopping up the last of his baked beans with a stray slice of toast. “Looks like an old Muggle book.”

Hermione tilted her head to read the title. “A Picture of Dorian Gray? Harry, whoever sent this to you has great taste. This is a lovely book, I read it when I was ten and I always reread it every few years-”

Harry’s heart pounded, so loud it drowned out Hermione and her ramblings, and he glanced up at the Head Table. Dumbledore’s eyes were already on his, peering at him curiously over his half-moon spectacles. Harry shook his head and smiled, it felt watery and weak even to himself, but Dumbledore nodded and turned away. 

Wrapping the book up, Harry shoved it deep into his bag, vowing to get rid of it as soon as he could. He’d had enough of Dark magic to last him a lifetime.

But the book wouldn’t allow itself to be destroyed. When Harry tried to throw it down the toilet, it appeared back in his satchel, nestled safely among his Transfiguration homework and the Half-Blood Prince’s Potions book. When Harry tried to _Incendio_ it, the black leather refused to melt and the pages stayed distinctly uncharred. He’d even tried to toss it into the Great Lake to no avail. It simply refused to move from Harry’s side.

So Harry kept it at the bottom of his bag, and shot concealment charms at it, in case it got into the wrong hands. Whoever had sent it to him clearly didn’t want anyone else reading it.

He tried to go about his week as normal. He continued using the Half-Blood Prince’s book, much to Slughorn’s delight. Harry tried to ignore Hermione’s looks of betrayal. He couldn’t give it up now - it was the only thing getting him above a T. As well as that, Harry, Hermione and Ron still ventured to the library in between classes everyday, looking for some sign of Horcruxes. Only once did Harry think of the heavy black book in his bag, and the possible answers that lay between its pages. It had been just after Transfigurations when the trio had made their way into the library and to the small, circular table they’d managed to grab in the back corner of the library, amidst towering piles of long forgotten books. It had hardly been deserted, with fourth years and seventh years face-deep in study for their exams. Harry always wondered if he’d have to worry about his N.E.W.T.S, or if the war would rip those from him, too.

Hermione had thumped a stack of books onto the small table. It creaked in protest of the extra weight, and Harry had winced at the promise of more work.

“Isn’t there a way to just… Charm them into finding what we’re looking for?” Harry asked.

Hermione’s frizzy hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, no longer as sleek and shiny as it usually was since she started using hair potions. There were small bags under her eyes, and her skin was sallow. Harry knew he didn’t look much better.

“Not that I know of. It’s the good old fashioned way or nothing, apparently,” she said, shaking her head. “Oh, how I wish Hogwarts still had that one book. It would surely have what we’re looking for.”

Ron closed the book he’d been reading - _Ancient Curses and Other Phenomena_ \- and dropped his forehead down on top of it. 

“What book?” He mumbled.

Hermione drew her wand from her robe sleeve and cast a _Muffliato_ around them. Still, when she leaned across the table her voice was barely a whisper.

“ _Secrets of the Darkest Arts_. I haven’t found much on it, but what references I’ve managed to glean always refer to how evil the contents of the book are. I think that what Dumbledore needs us to find, it’s all in there.”

Harry’s heart jumped into his throat. There was that familiar ache in the pit of his stomach that appeared whenever he thought about the book too long. Pain bloomed in the cavity behind his left eye. He tried to ignore the sudden headache, clenching his fists and digging nails into his palms.

Ron shuddered. “Sounds creepy.”

“Not to mention illegal. Anyway, there’s no use in wishing for things, now. We’ll just have to make do without it.”

They never brought it up again, much to Harry’s relief.

He felt strange about keeping such an important piece of information from his friends, and not to mention Dumbledore. But something in him prevented even the mention of the book. Plus, it was about the Dark Arts. There was no way in hell Harry was admitting to having something like that in his possession. He just wanted to be rid of it.

The next book came on the exact same day, just one week apart from the other. 

When Harry spotted Hedwig flying through the Great Hall with another leather-wrapped package, he almost wanted to storm out of the room. Only the knowledge that such an exit would inspire even more questions from the other Gryffindors kept him glued to his seat. Well, that, and his morbid curiosity. Hedwig landed right in the middle of his toast, settling her wings gracefully. 

Harry snorted and fed her a few treats he’d shoved into his pocket that morning. “Yes, because that was really necessary, Hedwig.”

Hedwig only stuck out her leg until he untied the package, smaller this time and tied with green ribbon, before flying off to the Owlery. Hermione and Ron were off at some Prefect meeting, leaving him sitting just a few seats away from Neville, Dean and Ginny. Harry shot a quick glance at them, but they were so engrossed in some joke that Seamus was loudly declaring to the Hall, not paying attention to him. So he slid the package into his satchel for inspection later on.

But before he could shove the last pumpkin pasty into his mouth and take off, somebody tapped him on the shoulder. It was Neville. He gestured up at the Head Table, where Dumbledore was staring at him over his half-moon spectacles. Slowly, so as to not raise any suspicion, Dumbledore raised three fingers at him. Their third lesson would be tonight, no doubt. So much for opening the package. Harry nodded, a quick jerk of his head, and settled back down in his seat. He wasn’t in any rush to Charms, anyway.

After another fruitless library session, Harry made his excuses to Ron and Hermione as he packed his bag - taking care to make sure that both the book and the new package were there underneath his ink pots and quills - before making his way to the Gargoyle Corridor.

“Acid Pops,” he said clearly to the gargoyle. There was the sound of grating stone, before the wall slid back to reveal the flight of stairs that led to Dumbldedore’s office. Taking them two at a time, Harry rapped his knuckles on the office door and stepped back as it swung open.

Dumbledore’s office always smelled like lemon drops and residue magic. Light streamed in from the arched windows, illuminating stray magic like a torch. Harry sneezed, waving away the sparks that showered around him. 

“Good evening, Harry. How have you been, my boy?”

Harry smiled tightly, slipping into the chair in front of Dumbledore’s desk. Fawkes twittered, and Harry sent him a wider smile, something more real. The phoenix looked as stunning as ever, all shimmering gold and bright crimson. 

“Lemon drop?” Dumbledore offered, shaking the crystalline bowl at him. 

Harry shook his head. His stomach was all twisted up with nerves, too much for him to even chew on anything.

“Am I here for another lesson, sir?” Harry asked.

“Oh, no, no, my boy.” The man placed the bowl of lemon drops between the cluttered mess of stacks of papers. “I’ve invited you here to discuss something far more grave. Something neither you or I could have ever predicted.”

For the first time Harry had known him, Dumbledore looked worried. He trailed his hand, the one he didn’t hold close to his chest, through the long tresses of his beard. Fine lines stretched thin around those strange blue eyes, lines of worry that sent unease tingling in the base of Harry’s spine.

“It’s to do with Voldemort,” he said, certain. It was the only explanation.

“Yes. I’m afraid dear Tom has found himself a new hiding place. He has called back every Death Eater we had eyes on, cancelled every raid and riot. Severus tells me that Voldemort has quite simply just vanished into thin air, not telling even those he perceives as his most loyal of followers where he has gone. I’ve been made aware that Bellatrix Lestrange is quite distraught.”

Harry stared at Dumbledore, his mind tripping over the words in an attempt to process their meaning. He could feel the beginnings of fear, in the soft set of his lips, and the way his hands refused to stop moving, twining around each other.

It was more than a minute before he was able to speak.

“Isn’t that what we want, sir? If Voldemort’s gone into hiding, then we have more time to gather the Horcruxes before he tries to find them.”

Surely there was no need for Dumbledore to look so somber? It was hardly a problem that slimy snake-faced bastard had fucked off to some rock to live under. This only meant good things for the Order - right?

Dumbledore sighed.

“That is where the problems begin, my boy. If it were simply the case of Voldemort disappearing, perhaps to regain his strength and to reorder his plans, I would not be so worried. But wherever Voldemort has gone - he has brought his Horcruxes with him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, i know harry's third lesson with dumbledore is around january, but i thought i'd just speed things up a little, hm? plus, my timeline is different, and all that.
> 
> anyway. if you enjoyed, please don't forget to leave a kudos and a comment! any and all reviews would be lovely <3


	2. Of Dreams & Headaches

**December - Now**

_Merlin_ , but it was cold in here.

How long had he been stuck in this Hell? All he remembered was his blood, flowing like a river and never ending, until he felt light-headed and arms gathered him up and took him away.

Harry wondered if this was what it was like to die. This constant darkness that rendered him blind, this cold that chilled his naked body to the bone. Harry could almost remember, but the ice had reached the base of his spine. Soon there wouldn’t be any time to think. 

At first, he had been full of rage, and that had warmed him up plenty. Harry shut his eyes, whimpering when it didn’t change a thing. The darkness was absolute, like ink on parchment. He missed that rage, the way it had coursed through his veins like liquid heat, had curled his magic tightly around him like a blanket. 

His magic had been the first to go, after that. Wards flexed and tightened and snapped around him, nullifying the room. Suddenly being a Squib sounded like the worst thing that could ever happen to him. The hunger came next, a gnawing in the pit of his stomach that did not go away. It ate at him, yet his body never shut down. 

He was stuck in perpetual stasis, sensory deprived and cursing his own stupidity. Harry curled into a corner, and prayed for those arms to come back. To save him from this place.

And then light streamed in, and clothes landed on his lap, and Harry wore them quickly, reverently. They were the clothes he’d worn when he’d gone out into the Forbidden Forest. A house elf dressed in a neatly pressed pillowcase had led him away from Hell, straight into the clutches of the devil.

Now Tom Riddle stood by the door of the bathroom like some sort of perverted guardian angel, that sardonic smirk on his lips unnerving Harry as he scrubbed himself as quick as he could in the bath. The soapy bubbles smelled heavenly, and the hot water almost took the chill out of his bones, but his eyes never left Riddle. What the fuck was happening?

He wanted to jump out the window. 

“You’ll need to eat, of course,” Riddle was saying as Harry dried himself and shoved on the robes the house elf had handed him. These weren’t his. These were a deep green that faded to black near the sleeves. “I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Harry said nothing. As idiotic as people liked to think he was, he could understand subtleties well enough. If he spoke out of turn, he would return to that room, where magical starvation would rip at his insides. So he stayed silent. It was strange. Now that he was out, he felt significantly less hungry. 

Riddle led him out of the pearly bathroom and down far too many hallways for Harry to remember the way until they came to a sparsely decorated dining room. The walls were painted a deep green, accented by the dark wood furniture. Riddle moved to sit at the head of the table. Harry sat at the other end, far away from the man. 

A house elf appeared out of nowhere. It was the same one that led him out of that Hell. It placed a plate in front of him, towering with food. Harry blanched. He couldn't possibly eat it all. But one glance at Riddle, who had taken only a glass of wine and was staring with such intensity, had Harry picking up his fork. Slowly, he began to eat.

Moment later, Harry carefully laid down his knife and fork on either side of the plate. It was licked clean, bone-white in the dim lighting of the dining room. He barely remembered eating the food - only that the gnawing hunger had returned with a vengeance, and he'd been powerful to refuse the food. At some point he stopped worrying about the poison that could be laced in the food, and had scraped every last bit from the plate.

All the while, Riddle sat at the head of the table, a pleased look on his face. 

"Why am I here," Harry said finally, his voice flat. 

If it was even possible, Riddle's smirk widened until Harry wondered if his face would rip in two. "I'm so glad you asked," he purred, and took a sip of his wine. "I have many plans for you, Harry Potter."

Harry clenched his fists. He kept his eyes away from Riddle, and stared resolutely at the bone-picked plate. "What plans are these, then? Are you going to train me to be one of your little Death Eaters? How charming," he sneered.

A sick sort of delight welled inside of him when Riddle's grip tightened on his wine glass. And then it was gone. Replaced by that blank expression that would most likely haunt Harry's nightmares.

"I must admit, I was getting quite worried when you refused to open your magical core to me," Riddle said. "It took me quite a few visits through your mind to get you nice and- supple, shall I say."

Harry thought of shooting pain, and fainting onto frost-filled grounds. One hand darted out to grip the handle of the heavy silver fork. He wondered if it was Charmed against anyone daring to stick it in their own eye. Harry doubted he'd be able to get even halfway across the table before Riddle would knock him out and put him back in Hell _._ No, Harry would hold his peace. For now.

"So you _were_ why my scar started hurting," he said instead.

"I- well." For a moment, Riddle seemed lost. "It had never occurred to me that you were experiencing pain because of it."

Harry paused in his daydreams of shoving the fork down his throat, and glanced up at Riddle. He squinted, trying to gauge the other man. Was Riddle really feeling _empathy_ for him?

The man shook his head. "It does not matter. Even a child such as yourself can survive a few headaches."

Harry snorted to himself. Of course. He returned to his fork, aware of the way Riddle's eyes - blood red, garnet, ruby, two shining jewels with fire behind them - lingered on him. Absently, Harry tapped the silver against the china plate, enjoying the clinking sound. One look at Riddle told Harry he did not approve. Good. He could shrivel up and die for all Harry cared. So he continued his tirade, all throughout Riddle's villainous speech about something or other. One thing Harry was curious to know was how the man had gone from looking like someone had crushed Nagini underneath their boot to this suave, grown-up version of his sixteen-year-old self. 

Perhaps-

"Enough!"

Harry jumped in his seat and his hand released the fork. He watched it clatter onto the wooden floors with a clang that echoed throughout the small room. He winced, his heart thudding in his chest. 

Riddle's face held no traces of the past hour's amusement. He stood abruptly, a nerve ticking in his jaw. For one brief, horrid moment, Harry thought of a numbing cold seeping into his bones, a gnawing hunger that ate him from the inside out, a deep rooted loneliness.

"You are insufferable like this, Potter. I believe I have let you have your _fun_ long enough. Come, it is time for your first lesson. Let it be one that you must learn once."

\--[]--

**November - Then**

The next night, when everyone else in the Gryffindor Common Room had trudged up to bed, Harry told Ron and Hermione what Dumbledore had said. They sat next to the warm light of the fire, spread out on the huge crimson rug. Harry played with the shimmering golden tassels that lined the edges, his mind tumbling over Dumbledore’s words. Dread sat like a bezoar in the pit of his stomach.

“This could be really bad, Harry,” Hermione said, her eyes frantic. “Merlin, and we’ve wasted so much time trying to decipher the you-know-whats.”

“She’s right, you know,” Ron said. Harry watched as a faint blush appeared on Hermione’s cheeks, circle of red that had nothing to do with the fire. He looked away, ignoring the ugly thing that spat bitterness in his chest. 

“I hate to imagine where the fucker has gone, now,” Ron continued, oblivious. “Last time he up and disappeared, he messed up Quirrel and almost drained Ginny’s life when he did come back.”

Harry nodded, shoulders tense as he hunched over his knees, eyes glued to the dancing of the flames. 

“There’s no point in looking for the things, now,” Harry said, almost to himself. “If he’s gone and taken them all, there’s no way we can find them.”

“Let alone destroy them,” Hermione added, nodding. Harry could almost see her quick mind working, see the cogs turning in her head as she assessed the situation.

Ron sighed. “This has all gone to shit, eh?”

Harry huffed a laugh, dead and humourless, into the clothed skin of his elbow. That was almost an understatement. 

“Well, we’ll just have to keep studying and teaching useful spells to the rest of the DA,” Hermione said. “Dumbledore will figure out what to do, eventually.”

“I suppose,” Harry said.

How could he tell them that he didn’t want to wait for Dumbledore? That ever since last night, his spine had itched with the need to act. That he still had - more than likely - illegal books and his resolve to not open them was waning. They could have spells the Death Eaters might use, spells that went beyond the scope of _Expelliarmus_ and Shield charms. Guilt, thick and cloying, was quickly becoming Harry’s most familiar companion.

When Ron almost fell head first into the fire with fatigue, Harry sent both his best friends up to their dorms, waving away their protests. Listening closely to the fall of their footsteps, Harry waited until the sound of both the girls and boy’s dorm doors shutting came, before pulling out the Marauder's Map from his pajama pocket. Unfolding it, Harry tapped it with his wand and murmured the passcode, and spread it out some distance away from the fire. Using the warm yellow light, his eyes found the Slytherin dungeons, and deep within them, Malfoy’s name. Motionless. As though he were asleep.

Harry sneered at the ink, and stayed there, staring at Malfoy’s name until he nearly went cross-eyed before packing up the Map and making his way into his own bed upstairs. He fell asleep to thoughts of Voldemort, Malfoy, and the unopened package still hidden deep inside his satchel.

  
The third book came when Harry was in bed the next day, curtains drawn and both of the mysterious books spread out on his duvet. The second one - _Quod Amor Ligat: Volume I_ \- was probably a potions book written entirely in Latin. Harry knew because upon unravelling the green ribbon that held the leather wrapping together, he noticed the top of a black feather between one of the pages. Curiosity winning over caution, he’d opened the book to that page, his eyes drawn to the beautifully illustrated title. _Amortentia_ , it read. _A false love._

Harry peered out of his bed curtains to make sure nobody was looking. It was a Quidditch day for Hufflepuffs against Slytherins, and Harry had feigned illness while the rest of his roommates bounded off to support the Hufflepuffs. Sure he was alone, he retreated to his cocoon of red. These books were dark. Evil. Harry could feel their residue like oil slicking against the edges of his magic. It felt wrong to touch them. And yet, he was almost intrigued - and sort of wished he could read Latin. 

Warily, Harry reached for _Secrets of the Darkest Art,_ fingers just brushing the cover when the door opened. 

“Harry are you in there?” It was Hermione. 

Cursing to himself, Harry grabbed the books and shoved them under his pillow before placing his head on top. When the curtains drew open, he murmured groggily, guilt clawing at him. Either he had a career in Muggle acting when he was older, or Hermione was too preoccupied to call him out on his fake illness as she sat down on the edge of the bed. 

“You look terrible. All flushed and sweaty - are you sure you’ve been taking enough liquids? Perhaps we need to bring you to Madam Pomfrey, after all.”

Harry shook his head and waved his hand. “No, ‘Mione, it’s alright. Just a mild headache, really.”

He almost missed the blood draining from her face. “It’s not You-Know-Who, is it?”

“No. It’s not him, Hermione. You can stop looking at me like that now.”

She huffed. “Well, excuse me for worrying about you. I suppose that means you don’t want the book I got from Hedwig at breakfast for you, then.”

At that, Harry propped himself up on one elbow, suddenly acutely aware of the book-shaped parcel in Hermione’s hands. His heart thumped once, twice, a loud staccato that sent blood rushing in his ears. 

“Let me see it,” he said, stretching a hand out.

“Yes, your Majesty,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. But there was a smile on her lips as she handed him the package. “I wonder who's sending you all these Muggle books? First Oscar Wilde, then Huckleberry Finn. What’s this one?”

Harry almost blinked up at her in confusion before he remembered. The books naturally came with Cover Concealment charms built into them. Something told him that couldn’t mean anything good. The sender had intended for him to hide them in plain sight. Pushing away the voice, Harry turned to the package. This one was covered in a shiny material the colour of obsidian and wrapped with a string decorated with dozens of tiny crystals. The effect was of something treasured, something surely expensive. Harry felt almost flattered as he unwrapped it and brought out the book.

The title was inscribed in a pearly liquid. _An Exploration into Crooked Curses and their Corrupt Counters_ , it read. Harry hummed, all of a sudden interested in spite of himself. This curiosity was familiar. It was the same thing that had driven him to the third-floor corridor in first year, and then the Chamber in second - it was the same curiosity that led him to the Half-Blood Prince’s textbook he cherished. Running his hand over the cover, Harry realised he wanted Hermione to leave. Despite how long he would try to deny it, he knew he would end up thumbing through the book. Maybe he could find some legal jinxes that he could teach the DA. 

“Great Expectations? That’s lovely, Harry. Whoever it is has good taste,” Hermione said. “I wish we knew who it was, though. It doesn’t feel right to just accept mysterious packages like this, especially in the times we’re in.”

Harry assured her he would be careful, one eye still on the gorgeous book, as he ushered her out of the room. Whipping his curtains closed, Harry dived under the covers, and tentatively opened _Crooked Curses_. For the first time in a while, he felt a spark of excitement at the prospect of learning magic outside of a classroom.

With the job of hunting the Horcruxes gone for now, studying the books took over Harry’s free time. When he wasn’t buckling under the increased schoolwork, he would tuck himself into a corner of the castle and read _Crooked Curses_. The contents disgusted him, of Hair Loss curses and jinxes to perpetually pull out an enemy’s toenails. (At this, as he could think of, was _Sectumsempra_ \- for enemies.) It didn’t help that with each spell came a horrifyingly detailed illustration to demonstrate the effects. 

Sometimes those illustrations haunted his dreams. In the dreams, the images turned to scenarios where Harry would practice them on unsuspecting Death Eaters. Once, he’d tried _Os Frangere_ on Voldemort, and had watched with grim satisfaction as the man’s bones had shattered inside that snakeskin shell. But the mornings after these dreams were the worst. He always woke with a dull throb in his scar and fear wrapped around his heart.

He didn’t know how to tell Ron and Hermione, or especially Dumbledore, so he pushed the dreams to the same place in his mind where he kept the books. Shoved them deep into a corner until night came again.

  
~

_Harry stood in front of Wormtail in the Forbidden Forest, watching as the man struggled in his binds. A flick of his wand, and a murmur of Sileo froze the rat-like man. Harry smiled, a thing made of sharp angles that sent another satisfying flash of terror through Wormtail’s eyes._

_“You will pay for what you did, Pettigrew. Mark my words,” Harry whispered, stepping closer to the man. His feet made no sounds on the forest floor, almost as though he floated above the frozen ground itself. “I will avenge my parents, and I’ll set Sirius free. You have my oath.”_

_He loosened the spell slightly. Enough for Wormtail's mouth to open, enough for Harry to enjoy the stammers of panic that fell from his lips. Half-spoken words and sentences that drifted into one another, creating a cacophony of cowardice. But he soon grew tired of the rat-man’s trembling._

_Quick as lightning, Harry drew himself to his full height and cast - “Perdere!”_

_Striking blue light shot from his wand and engulfed Wormtail. The spell settled into his very flesh, simmering just beneath the surface of the blood vessels, illuminating the network like a lightbulb. The light died out, and Wormtail’s already shrivelled form began to wrinkle. Harry watched the man go through old age, watched liver spots appear on the backs of his hands, saw whiskers so long they blew in the icy breeze sprout and fall out again. Wormtail’s bones grew fragile and his skin sagged, turned papery and translucent, like a moth’s wings. His eyes bulged, further and further until they fell from their sockets, and Wormtail’s body sped forwards and forwards through time in mere seconds, until it began rigor mortis. Harry curled his lip at the stench of a rotting corpse. He wondered if an Inferi could still be made from the remains of the victim of the Wasting Curse._

_Wormtail crumbled to the ground, no longer made of flesh and bone enough to be held by Harry’s entrapment._

~

All throughout Potions class, Harry’s head hurt. He’d woken up that morning to faint memories of bone and the distinct, unsettling feeling that he’d done something he wasn’t meant to. He’d shoved it all away, into that dark corner of his mind that was steadily growing, worryingly enough. 

Now, he tried to ignore the slight pounding sensation in his skull as he added the Shrivelfigs. The Prince’s book said to crush the weird-looking beans with the flat side of the knife to collect the juice better, and Harry followed it’s instructions. He pretended not to see Hermione’s frowns, and finished his potion fifteen minutes earlier than he was supposed to, much to Slughorn’s delight.

“Harry, I see you’ve managed to move beyond your peers yet again! Move aside, Ronald, let me see Harry’s marvelous work.” Slughorn squeezed his enormous mass beside Harry’s bench, and peered into his cauldron. Smiling tightly, Harry leaned on the Prince’s textbook, half-covering the contents from the Professor’s view. “Yes, yes, this is quite the perfect Elixir! Fifteen points to Gryffindor for such a wonderfully made potion. And faster than anyone else, too.”

Harry snorted as Slughorn moved to comment on Neville’s potion. Now he knew the man was full of shit. He knew for a fact that Malfoy had finished even ten minutes before he had, and he didn’t have the Prince’s book to help him. Harry was sure Malfoy’s potion had turned out perfectly, too. 

Shaking his head, Harry quickly packed his bag and motioned to Hermione and Ron that he was leaving. Hermione barely glanced up from her potion, her frizzy hair stuck to her forehead, damp with potions fumes. Ron just nodded, and returned to grimacing at his cauldron. Harry smiled to himself, and exited the classroom. Sometimes, he felt bad for keeping the Prince’s book when Hermione so despised it, but then he remembered how he’d been before it. With the end of term exams coming up, he couldn’t risk getting below an A for his final result. 

Hogwarts was almost silent during class time. Like the Great Hall during some meals. Harry frowned as nerves shot through his stomach. The war hung like one of Trelawney’s stupid grims over their shoulders, shrouding even their happiest moments with worry. And it was up to him to end it. He had to learn the spells in Crooked Curses, or at least how to counter them. He hadn’t even opened up Secrets of the Darkest Art just yet. It felt too Dark, too oppressing around his magic.  
Harry squared his shoulders, his resolve strengthened. Anything that would help him against Voldemort and the Death Eaters, he would do. He couldn’t let that snake bastard win.

Not when everything was at stake.

Motivated by the quiet of the halls, Harry raced up to his room to grab a scarf and change into a heavy set of winter robes before heading out of the castle doors. After Potions, he had a free period while Hermione had Ancient Runes. Ron would probably make his own entertainment for the day, and that suited Harry just fine. He strode down to the Great Lake, his breath frosting and forming clouds in the air in front of him. Gritting his teeth against the cold, Harry settled at a spot underneath a leafless tree and cast a few quick Warming charms on the area until he sat, surrounded in a cocoon of warmth.

A tiny smile split his lips. It was insane how quickly he was beginning to anticipate and enjoy these moments he had with the books. Settling against the tree, Harry pulled out Crooked Curses, and a spare Muggle notebook he’d asked Dean for. In it were his messy, sprawling notes that he took of curses and counter-curses he’d teach the DA once he’d mastered them. Most of them were defensive, but some were offensive, not designed to kill. That’s not how they would win this war. Not by stooping to Voldemort’s level. They had _honour_.

Harry sighed and let himself get lost in the book, absentmindedly rubbing his itching scar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ello ello beloved readers! i bring today another chapter - i do hope you enjoyed it. i have no beta for this fic, so i apologise for my horrid typos and missing letters, if there are any. 
> 
> please don't forget to leave a kudos and a comment if you enjoyed! thank you so much for reading <3  
> what do you think harry's first lesson will be? ;)


	3. Of Honey & Subterfuge

Albus Dumbledore was never a man for subterfuge and secrecy before he was marked by Magic herself. Then, still living in fear of what Grindelwald had become, he had had to train himself until lies tripped off his tongue like honey. Somewhere along the way he supposed he’d gained a taste for it. Playing others like a marionette master tasted as sweet as the Lemon Drops he so enjoyed.

Of course, there were times where this newfound skill was not just a plaything, but a legitimate tactic in the war efforts. He had no qualms about using it, even on his ‘most trusted’ followers.

Dumbledore sat in his office, one hand absently stroking Fawke’s head, the other - now black and shrivelled - lay curled against his chest. He was growing tiresome of this curse. He had originally intended for Severus to accelerate the process, but with Tom Riddle’s recent disappearance, he hesitated to leave Harry so underdeveloped.

A knock. The office door swung open and in stepped Severus, a vial of potion clutched in one fist. 

“Ah, Severus, my boy. Please, have a seat.”

He watched the man’s face carefully and didn’t miss the spasm of his features at the old moniker. Severus was undoubtedly aware that it was a small test of sorts, to see where his loyalties stood at every moment they were together. It did not bother Dumbledore that Severus was still clearly so at odds with himself. One could say that it was a specialty of his, collecting those who were broken and sending them on the Light path. As Magic had dictated for him. He was sure of it.

“Now, tell me Severus - has there been any word of Tom? Any at all?”

Severus shook his head, his strong features settled into a blank mask. Dumbledore’s fingers tightened slightly on the back of Fawkes’ neck. The phoenix knew better than to make noise. Taking a deep breath, Dumbledore untangled his fingers from Fawkes, and let go of his sudden anger. He so hated it when Severus did that, and he was sure the man knew it.

“No reports from the sources have sighted the Dark Lord, Albus. It truly does seem as though he has vanished.”

“Ridiculous,” Dumbledore said immediately. “One does not just disappear, especially when one is as bitter, angry and as magically infested as Tom Riddle is.”  
At that, Severus inclined his head. Dumbledore leaned forward on his good elbow, ignoring the shooting pain that raced up the blackened hand. He would take the vial from Severus when he was done. For now, such trivial little things could wait.

“And the Mark?” He asked, eyes trained on Severus’ face. It remained as blank as parchment.

“Nothing. See.” He pulled up the long, gaping sleeve of his robes to show the Mark. 

In this light, it seemed nothing more than a scar, etched into sallow, waxen skin. Faint and rather unremarkable. Pity. If it had shown even the slightest sign of activity…

“Severus.” His voice brooked no argument, yet the other man still took his time before meeting Dumbledore’s eyes. There was a slight shimmer in them, something built from years of anger and resentment. If not for the Vow, Dumbledore truly would not have known where the man’s loyalties lay. 

Once again, it was love that saved Albus Dumbledore.

With practice ease, Dumbledore split from his own mind and entered Severus’. He met opposition, naturally, both magical and the mental shields of a skilled Occlumens. Uncaring, he tore through them, pushing forcefully until he breached the shadow that surrounded the memories and delved forward. He was faintly aware of the gasp of pain that did not come from him. Well. Severus had always known what he was getting himself into. He always knew that anything and everything Albus Dumbledore did, it was for the greater good.

Satisfied when he saw no evidence of falsehood, Dumbledore slipped from Severus’ mind and returned to his own. He held a hand out for the vial and accepted it from a shaking hand. 

He nodded. “You may go, Severus. We will meet again shortly.”

With a curt nod the other man stood up. He held himself stiffly, but Dumbledore recognised the signs of a damaged mental landscape. It was in the slight tremor of the man’s shoulders, and the shuffled gait as he exited the office.

Dumbledore smiled. He so did love the taste of honey.

“You don’t look so good, mate,” Ron commented when Harry slumped into the free space beside him. 

Across from them, Hermione glanced up from her Transfigurations book. She frowned when she saw him, closing her book and leaning forwards to inspect his face. Harry scowled, turning away.

“You look like you haven’t slept at all this week, Harry,” she chided. “Pale skin, purple bruises underneath your eyes, and your scar looks inflamed. I thought you said you were fine the other day?”

Harry shrugged away their concern, shaking his head to clear it. He’d woken to fog clouding his mind and his nose and mouth had felt stuffy and dry. He thought he was probably coming down with something, but that didn’t mean he’d appreciate being coddled like a baby. He was fine. Everything was fine.

“Don’t worry about it, Hermione. Plus, I think Snape would have my head on a platter if I didn’t show up to Defense.”

“He’s got a point, ‘Mione,” Ron said. “But if you throw up when we’re dueling then I’m finding a new partner.”

Snorting, Harry closed his eyes and tried to focus on something positive. He’d had no dreams, or at least, none of the bad ones. He didn’t know if he could stomach the sick feeling on top of whatever else was happening to him.

Defense Against the Dark Arts had always been Harry’s favourite subject, and it was even more so now, with a competent teacher. Snape was rude, and malicious, and had no respect for students who did not try - but he was brilliant. Harry could admit that in the privacy of his thoughts. Snape knew what he was doing, as someone who’d spent a majority of his life casting the exact spells he was now teaching them to counter. The constant barks on their dueling posture, on their wand holding techniques and their dodging speed quickly sharpened them, forced them to become better. Harry could never admit it to anyone for fear of looking mad, but he held a grudging respect for Snape now. The man was suited to the post. He certainly knew how to at least teach it better than he did Potions.

They were currently practicing advanced shield charms, which Snape said that only the skilled could master wordlessly. Harry couldn’t help but think about wandlessly, though he himself was a far cry away from doing that. That required control - something he didn’t have, no matter how powerful the Wizarding World liked to think he was.

Harry faced Ron and flicked his wand, sending a few low-level jinxes at him. He watched, pleased, when Ron countered them all by throwing up a pale blue shield. But the other boy had the habit of twisting to the left to cast, leaving his right shoulder exposed. Smiling, Harry cast.

“Petrificus Totalus!” 

Ron’s arms and lest snapped to his sides. He hit the floor with a dull thud, wand falling from stiff fingers and rolling, rolling, until it rested just in front of Harry. 

“Mr. Weasley, I suggest that if you wish to make it past your seventeenth birthday, you will cease that foolish twisting when you cast,” Snape said, swooping in with a flurry of black robes. He released Ron from the body bind, and stepped away to one of the Ravenclaws.

Ron snorted as he stood up, rubbing his shoulder. “Figures that the slimy git wouldn’t give you any points. That was wicked fast, mate.”

“Thanks, but you really did practically give that one to me. You shift too much when you cast your shields.”

Grimacing, Ron nodded and took the correction for what it was. Harry supposed he was used to it from the Dumbledore’s Army meetings.

When it was Ron’s turn, he didn’t hold back. Harry threw up shield after shield, barely allowing one to dissipate before he’d pushed the next one to the forefront. He set up three in a small radius around himself, and - for fun - threw in _Redire_. It was a counter he’d found in Crooked Curses, bordering on Dark magic but the description had promised the only damage to the opponent was a rebound of their own magic. Harry didn’t think that sounded too bad.

Something deep inside him tugged as he cast the spell, something unpleasant and curling. As though it did not like Harry casting it. Frowning, Harry pushed the feeling away as he watched Ron shoot spell after spell, knocking down each of the class-appointed shields in turn.

The Defense classroom was alight with wonderful colours and the dizzying smell of magic. 

“These are good, mate,” Ron called over the shouts. “But, word of warning, I’ve been getting Hermione to help me practice and I can see your defeat in three, two-”

Harry only stood, loosely handling his wand as he watched, fascinated as Ron’s _Reducto_ met the _Redire_ shield. The spell slammed into the invisible barrier and seemed to become engulfed by it. There was a dent where the spell was. Harry felt the shield draw from his magic, before the dent catapulted forwards and flung the heavy-duty _Reducto_ forwards.  
Ron had the good sense to bound out of the way, thank Merlin. 

Before guilt could crawl its way up his throat, blinding pain exploded from his scar. White hot, red hot, all encompassing, it spread like fire from his forehead and down his arms, his legs, trailing molten lava in its wake. His hand slapped his scar, fingers dug the skin around it, almost pleading the pain to leave. A groan ripped from his throat, and Harry sank to his knees, every muscle in his body cramped until the pain slipped away.

Somebody was knelt in front of him. “Weasley,” the deep voice said. “Don’t just stand there looking gormless. Go and inform the headmaster of this immediately.”

Harry waved away any attempts at helping him, and struggled to his feet by himself. The pain was all gone, leaving only the memory of agony. He was fine. Everything was fine.

Madam Pomfrey took her sweet time, but eventually Harry managed to convince her that the pain was gone and he felt well enough to leave. She’d only sniffed, shoved a Pepperup Potion into his hand and had sent him away with a customary “I don’t want to see you back here again, Potter.”

The library was almost empty by the time Harry managed to grab his invisibility cloak. He easily tiptoed around Madam Pince’s vacant desk and found his way to the Restricted Section. He didn’t have a signed slip, but that was alright. He’d planned on spending the night down here anyway.

Glancing around to make sure Pince was nowhere near him, Harry scanned the titles along the shelves. No doubt this would have been easier with the librarian’s help, but there was no way this could wait until he convinced Slughorn to sign a slip for him. Between the sick feeling that had warred with his triumph at casting his first Crooked Curses spell, and the searing pain of his headache, Harry couldn’t wait.

He would find a way to make his scar stop hurting, connection to Voldemort be damned.

None of the books he picked up even mentioned curse scars, choosing instead to snarl at him and snap razor-sharp teeth. Harry ran his hand over one book - Dabbling in the Dark: A Great Reprieve from Light Magic by Adrienne Noctis, it read - and felt a gnawing hunger erupt in his chest. The blurb, scratched into the dragonhide back cover, promised an in-depth explanation on the intricacies of Dark and Light magic. Harry wanted. Wanted to learn more about the magic in his veins.

Merlin, he felt like a Ravenclaw. He felt like Hermione.

It really wasn’t fair how the Purebloods all knew even the most intricate of magical trivia, things that he or Hermione could never even hope to learn from mere books. And this sense of injustice, that he had the right to know as much as any witch or wizard did about magic, it was this that pushed Harry to settle into a worn chair in the darkest corner of the Restricted Section he could find. He opened Dabbling in the Dark, excitement lighting the brilliant green of his eyes.

Harry found himself unable to put any of the mysterious books down. He still was yet to even touch Secrets of the Darkest Arts, but he’d practiced a shoddy translation spell on the Latin Potions book and lapped up the description of _Amortentia_ like it was water. It was sickening, how the potion could falsify love to the extent that the giver could even be fooled into playing the part of the perfect couple. Sickening, but another piece to the puzzle that was the Wizarding World.

He continued to sneak down to the Restricted Section of the library each night and read more passages of Dabbling in the Dark. It was eye-opening, learning about the different kinds of magic. Why didn’t Hogwarts teach about any of them? The Dark Arts, he could understand. Harry couldn’t wrap his head around the Blood or Soul Magics that Dark wizards practiced. It churned his stomach and disturbed his sleep at night. The Dark consumed, but Noctis spoke of it as though its rewards far outweigh the dangers. Harry was almost too scared to look into it. The Dark Arts were intense, suitable for people well older than school age. But Ancient Magic? Rituals and rites?

Ron and Hermione had started watching him, worry tugging on their features. Harry only managed a smile every time they caught his eye - a shaking, watery thing that did nothing to soothe them.

~

_Harry sat behind a handsome mahogany desk, twirling his wand between his fingers. Before him kneeled some of the Death Eaters he remembered from the battle at the Ministry. When Bellatrix Lestrange had killed Sirius. He felt a sneer curl his lip, satisfied as the Death Eaters shuddered._

_“I’m sure you’ll all be glad to know that I have expanded my repertoire since Wormtail’s demise,” Harry murmured. “It will also please you greatly to know that you four are the next to die.”_

_More trembling. Some even tried to lower themselves closer to the floor in a show of subservience that Harry could only laugh at. He gripped his wand, so tight a warning tingle sped up his wand hand. He loosened his grip, so as to not snap the one thing that had never wronged him._

_“Shut up!” Harry snapped, and slashed his left hand downwards, Sonus Accipere on his tongue. “I’m tired of your useless blubbering. I have taken your voices as my trophies, as proof of my own successful vengeance. After I have had my fun, I will leave you alive. What a shame that when I release you, nobody will hear your plight. Nobody will believe it was Boy-Who-Lived that mutilated you beyond repair.”_

_He stepped up to the closest Death Eater. Corban Yaxley cowered, raising his hands as though they would save him. Blood dripped from his mouth, from all their mouths, and Harry knew their throats were shattered, ripped to pieces from their voices being forced from them._

_He smiled. Yaxley nearly fell over._

_“Don’t worry. I’ll even bury all your memories of tonight deep inside your psyche. Just so you can enjoy them without any meddling Legilimens intruding on these happy times.”_

_And he began to cast, magic so black it resembled shadows shooting from his wand tip._

~

When Harry woke up one Saturday, it was to the concerned faces of Ron and Hermione. He groaned, turning away from them as he tried to disappear under red quilts. He didn’t think he could face them, not after his dream. He couldn’t remember everything, but he knew he’d cast something Dark, something gruesome. It was there in the way his stomach curled in on itself, the way fear wrapped itself around his lungs and squeezed. Merlin, there was something seriously wrong with him. Something Harry didn’t know if he could fix.

“Oh, brighten up, Harry. We only want to talk,” Hermione said. “Professor Dumbledore said that we could help you this way.”

Harry ignored the flash of irritation at her words and sat up. He couldn’t push his friends away - he wouldn’t. He would fix this whole mess, find a spell to stop his scar hurting, and he’d teach the DA amazing spells just like the _Redire_ shield. His dreams, he could handle by himself.

“I’m up, I’m up,” he said, flashing them a tiny, genuine smile. “Thanks for checking up on me, but I promise I’m fine. Haven’t been sleeping well, is all.”

Ron hummed, his fingers playing with the edge of Harry’s bed curtain. “That’s good, mate, but it’s not what we wanted to talk to you about.”

Blue eyes met green, and Harry wondered vaguely if he was in trouble.

“Let’s go down to the Lake for breakfast,” Hermione said, standing up. “Come on, we need to talk and we might as well eat as we do it.”

Obediently, Harry shoved on a jumper and some old jeans, wrapped a Gryffindor scarf around his neck and followed them first to the Great Hall to grab some pumpkin pasties before they headed to the edge of the Black Lake. 

“Want to tell us what’s wrong, mate?” Ron said, shoving half of his egg sandwich into his mouth. He caught Hermione’s disgusted look and shrugged, chewing unashamedly. Harry turned away to hide the grin curving his mouth, and tried his best not to feel like he was back under the scrutiny of the Wizengamot. “You’ve been sneaking around more than usual.”

“At first we thought you were just going after Malfoy again, but Ron says you haven’t even looked at the map once in two weeks,” Hermione said.

“I- it’s complicated,” Harry said. He picked at his pasty, shredding bits of it onto the patch of ground they’d cast Warming Charms on. “I’ve been busy reading, and studying a few spells I thought we could teach at the next DA meeting. One of them was the shield I used on you, Ron, a few days ago in Defense.”

At that, Ron winced. “Yeah, about that. That was a- a Dark spell, wasn’t it?”

Harry’s heart leapt into his throat. “What? No!” His voice sounded croaky even to his own ears.

Beside him, Hermione huffed and narrowed her eyes.

“Look, it wasn’t Dark. It’s a fucking Shield Charm, for Merlin’s sake. I wouldn’t be that daft,” Harry said, flashing a disarming smile at her. It slipped when her eyes only narrowed further, and his shoulders deflated. “Okay, fine. So maybe I found it in a Dark Arts book, but-”

Hermione gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth in shock, her eyes wide as she stared at him. “How could you? Harry, you know the Dark Arts are forbidden at Hogwarts - not to mention you used it during class time-”

“Would you be quiet and listen to me for once, Hermione?” Harry snapped. Irritation sharpened his words, and a black fog clouded his mind for one, split second. How dare she? Didn’t she get it? _Redire_ wasn’t evil, hell, it was barely even Dark!

“Harry,” Ron said. His voice held a warning, an edge that made Harry unclench fists he hadn’t known he made. The black fog swept away, and in its place was left a dull throbbing behind his scar. 

This conversation was giving him a headache.

“I’m sorry, alright? But if you’d stop accusing me for just one minute, you’d know that the _Redire_ shield isn’t Dark. It’s a counter to most low-level Dark spells, and I’d been under the impression that that’s what Defense Against the Dark Arts meant.”  
He couldn’t help the snark that dripped from his lips. It felt too natural, too easy. They were always questioning him, never trusting that he was grown up enough to know the wrong sort for himself, thanks. Stuffing what was left of his pumpkin pasty into his mouth, Harry stood up in one swift motion.

“And anyway, Hermione,” Harry murmured, his eyes alight and flashing with the need to make her understand. To make her see reason. “Just because something is Dark, doesn’t mean it’s evil. Dark and Light are merely constructs - did you know that? I read it in-”

And his world exploded. Worse than the pain in defense, worse than when Voldemort had planted images in his head about Sirius. Worse than Lockhart turning the bones in his arm to sludge. It took him deep down underneath the cover of darkness, and Harry fell with it. He was barely aware of the way his body hit the frozen ground, or the panicked screams that called his name over and over and over again.

The pain was his guardian, now. It didn’t let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! i do hope you enjoyed this chapter - writing in Dumbledore's perspective isn't something i've ever done before, but it was surprisingly fun! 
> 
> don't forget to leave a kudos if you enjoyed <3


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